


In this fire, i miss your warmth

by Anonganon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, kinda canon complient but not really, no beta we die like WIlbur on the 16th
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28090899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonganon/pseuds/Anonganon
Summary: “Are you all right?” The ghost asks, “You’re almost as pale as I am.”Tommy is tempted to admit that No, Wilbur I’m not. Instead, he bites his tongue and tries his best attempt at a smile. “Of course, Ghostbur. Nothing wrong with a nap in the mines. Good for the back.”“I think it’d be terrible for your back.” Ghostbur replies, lifting his legs up to lie horizontal in the air. He stifles a laugh, “Nappyinnit.”
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1826
Collections: Completed stories I've read, Found family to make me feel something, MCYT, MCYT Fic Rec





	In this fire, i miss your warmth

Exile is fucking miserable. Water pools at his feet from the pouring rain, the tent’s wool a weak protest against the rain. Tommy curls up in his cot, feeling the water on his back and seep into his skin, cold rivulets against his spine. Wilbur, or Ghostbur, as Tommy likes to call him(is it to create a divide of who his brother once was? Wilbur, Alivebur, Ghostbur; his brother, the unhinged ex-president, and the amnesiac ghost?), hums by the tent pole, weaving the flower crown. Deft, translucent fingers loop the stems out and in, adding a zinnia next to a hyacinth. He hums in reverb, the quiet song singing an off-key familiar melody. Tommy strains his ears, catching the last few notes as it dissipates into the rain.  _ My L’manburg, my L’manburg _ .

Tommy feels his heart choke, feels water well up from behind his eyelids. He wrenches his eyes shut, burying his head deeper into the pillow. His nation has betrayed him. His brother’s unfinished symphony, his own wretched song.

He tries to sleep. The rain falls till sunrise. 

Somehow, he wakes up feeling worse than the night before. His face feels hot and his hands cold. A headache pounds at his temple. His clothes are dried stiff from the rain, and his shoes are damp. He swings his legs out to the side, quickly grabbing on the bed frame when the world spins out from under him. “Shit.” He groans, waits out the moment of nausea, and grabs the pickaxe by the tent-side. This cold can wait, he has some mining to do. He trudges off into his mine, shoes squelching at every step.

The orange glow of the torchlight is a welcome change from the sunlight. His headache softens at the edge, feeling less like a bulldozer ran over his head and more like someone went at it with a hammer. Considerable improvement. He lowers himself slowly down the cobble staircase, hands trailing on the walls for support. If he trips, it’s a long fall down, and he doesn’t think his pride needs to be bruised even more.

Metal drags out from behind him. A step, then another, then another.

A small draft passes him and he shivers despite the sweat pouring down his back. There’s a lava pool to his left, almost dizzying in its heat, but his hands still tremble. He hefts the pickaxe, wondering for a split second if he should go back, and decides against. He swings down, and begins to mine. 

He continues mining till sunset, till the cave lights mellow out into a soft yellow. Swing, drag, swing again. His actions are almost methodical, thoughts clouded and movements sluggish. He pauses in his trance, wiping the thick film of sweat on his forehead. The pleasant buzzing slowly leaves his mind as he realizes just how exhausted and sick he feels. His arms shake with exhaustion, and he wonders if he’ll even be able to make it back to the bed. Before he can even make an attempt, his treacherous legs buckle out from beneath him and he slides down onto the cobble floor. He leans his head onto the wall, sighing as the stone cools his heated face. He feels his eyelids droop down further, and he dips his head lower.  _ One minute _ , he thinks,  _ and then I’ll go back _ . His eyes slip shut.

Tommy wakes up the feeling of ice on his cheeks. He opens his tired eyes, and through blurry vision he sees a figure clad in grey and yellow. He blinks the spots out of his eyes and squints, and the world comes into something of a focus. Ghostbur peers down at him, fingers brushing against cheek.

“How long have you been here?” He asks, “your cheeks are red.”

Tommy opens his mouth to reply, and hoarse coughs tumbles out. He curls into his side, arms wrapped around his midriff as his body attempts to hack a lung out. Ghostbur tries to comfort him, rubbing soft circles into his back. It makes him shiver. “Took a nap.” Tommy rasps, once the coughs have somewhat died down, “Lost track of time.”

“You didn’t come back to the tent last night.” Ghostbur says softly, “I came to look for you.”

“Thanks, big man.” Tommy says, feebly patting the ghost’s shoulder. “Help me up? I think my legs are asleep.”

Ghostbur giggles, sliding an arm under him and helps haul him to his feet. Tommy sways for a few seconds, vision threatening to collapse again, before he reaches out to lean on the wall, and breathes. 

“Are you all right?” The ghost asks, “You’re almost as pale as I am.”

Tommy is tempted to admit that  _ No, Wilbur I’m not _ . Instead, he bites his tongue and tries his best attempt at a smile. “Of course, Ghostbur. Nothing wrong with a nap in the mines. Good for the back.”

“I think it’d be terrible for your back.” Ghostbur replies, lifting his legs up to lie horizontal in the air. He stifles a laugh, “Nappyinnit.”

Tommy snorts, wincing at the way his throat scrapes against itself. He peers up at the small light where the tunnel starts, and judges that he’s got a few hours left till nightfall. “I’ll be in here a while, Ghostbur.” He says, dragging his feet to where he left off, “I’ll be back by nighttime, okay?”

Ghostbur flashes a thumbs up phases upwards into the ceiling. Tommy stares at the spot for a while, blinking. He shrugs and continues forward, glad that the nap gave him somewhat of a boost of energy. His joints ache and his eyes water, but he swings his pickaxe and mines. A distraction is all he needs, he thinks. Anything to keep him busy from wallowing in his own isolation. Ghostbur is pleasant company, but he misses the warmth of another human being. He misses the warmth of his best friend. Tubbo always knew what to do, always knew what to say to get him to laugh. Now, with saltwater dripping down his chin and a feverish flush spread across his cheeks, he misses the company. He shivers again, and wipes his eyes, looking up at the exit. 

It’s dark outside.

He sighs and decides to quit for today, to appease the promise he made to Wilbur(and not just because he feels like death warmed up, absolutely not). He staggers up the stairway, pausing every other step to catch his breath. He curses the fact that the mines lead so deep into the ground, and his legs shake from the effort it takes to keep him upright. After what feels like hours, he manages to drag his aching body out of the mines and tumbles into the grass. It’s soft, and he has to fight the urge to fall asleep then and there. He pushes himself up wobbly knees and staggers to the tent, almost collapsing into the cot. He pulls the thin blanket over himself, shivering in the night air. His stomach rolls, and burns, telling him he should eat and telling him that if he did it’d come right back up. 

He curls into himself, eyes shut to ward off the ringing in his ears. He feels so incredibly tired, and so incredibly restless. He turns and shifts, falling into a slight doze, that land between sleep and wake. A heavy weight settles into his bones, an uncomfortable chill that ripples through his ragged clothing and leaves him panting in his sleep. 

(He dreams of explosions, of distorted screams and wither heads.)

He starts awake, heart pounding. The sudden shift in atmosphere makes the world spin dangerously, and white spots collect in his vision. He tilts to the side and falls to the oak floor, hard enough that it’s sure to leave bruises in the morning. He pulls himself up on quivering knees, and staggers out to the seaside. The sand sticks to his bare feet as he drunkenly stumbles out onto the waterside and collapses by the sea. His hand buries into the sand, the small bits of rock scratching his skin. His face is pressed against the ground, and he breathes in the salty air. He still feels like shit, but his panicked heart slows and the tightness around his lungs loosen. He drifts off into an uneasy sleep. 

He’s being pulled at. It’s the first thing he registers, the next being the uncomfortable prickling that comes with lying on sand. He looks up through bleary eyes, finding Ghostbur staring down at him, concerned.  _ That’s a first _ , he thinks through the slog in his mind. 

“Did you take a nap again?” Ghostbur asks, with a frown so  _ Wilbur-like _ it makes Tommy’s heart ache.

Tommy makes a face, lifting his head a few millimeters off the ground to spit out the sand that’s managed to make its way into his mouth. His chin drops back down, the task seemingly too strenuous for his body to handle. “Yeah.” 

Ghostbur settles down beside him, palm brushing his forehead, Tommy leans into the coolness of it. “You don’t look very good.”

“Someone decided to be a dickhead today.”

He ignores the comment, tilting his head to the side. “First you fall asleep in the mines, then I find you asleep on the sand. I can’t feel your forehead, but it must be hot enough for your face to be so red.”

“Not pulling punches, are we-” Tommy’s head snaps to the side, and he coughs into his arm, shoulders hunched and shaking. He pants, head weakly rolling on the ground. 

Ghostbur hums, and if it wasn’t for the gauze in his mind, Tommy would say he heard a thread of smugness in it. “Have you eaten?”

“...No.”

Ghostbur sighs, so different from the cheerful ghost he normally is. For a second he looks tired, and wears the same exhaustion Alivebur did days before the 16th. 

“You’re sick.” 

Tommy grins, a lie written on his face. “I’ll be fine, big man. The great Tommyinnit won’t be bested by some cold.”

Ghostbur eyes him with something like incredulity, and Tommy resists the urge to let out a hysterical laughter.

“Help me up, big man?” Tommy asks, and Ghostbur is at his side, pulling Tommy’s arm over his shoulder.

“I tried to pull you back to the tent.” Ghostbur says, as they hobble back to logstedshire, “I wasn’t strong enough.”

Normally Tommy would take a crack at him, laugh out some joke about being strong and massive, but the fuzz has not left his brain and the ache has not left his joints, so instead he smiled weakly and says, “Thanks.” 

They reach the tent, and Ghostbur carefully helps lower him into the cot. He almost weeps at how the beddings soothe his bones, and leans in into the comfort, a sigh escaping his lips. 

“I’m going to get some food.” Ghostbur says.

Tommy hums, and dozes off. 

A light hand shakes him awake, and his eyes flicker open to see Ghostbur looking down at him. He lifts up a translucent hand and in it sits a bowl of rabbit stew, wisps of steam rising from its edges. 

“I’m not sure why I got you this.” Ghostbur says, staring into the stew, “I was making it and forgot why. You can still have it though.”

Tommy nods, taking the bowl in unsteady hands. He drains half of it, feeling the stew roil around in his stomach. He sets the rest down by the bedside.

“You look like you need sleep.” Ghostbur whispers, “I’m gonna go chop some wood.”

Tommy nods again, and his eyes slip shut once more. 

(There are screams  _ everywhere _ . He holds on to his sword with a panicked grasp, yelling into the smoke.)

(There is debris everywhere, and the dust makes his eyes water. The sky is awashed in red.)

(He wipes a bloody hand across his eyes, looking frantically around for the mop of brown hair, the dark green sweater.)

(Tubbo?  _ TUBBO! _ ) 

Tommy’s eyes fly open, and in the thick fog that surrounds him, past the pounding of his own heart, he hears a soft humming. 

“Wilby.” He rasps, almost delirious with fever. 

Ghostbur glides to his side, hands almost subconsciously reaching to pet his hair, combing through it with the ease of having done it a thousand times over. “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He says.

“It hurts.” Tommy whimpers. Tears fall down his cheeks. “It hurts, Wilbur.”

Ghostbur cups his face with a frigid hand, something sad in those grey eyes. “I’m here, Tommy. I’m here.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Tommy pleads, feebly grasping onto his brother’s wrist, “They all left. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’ll stay.” Ghostbur says, still running a hand through the blonde’s hair. “I’ll stay.” He repeats, as if to remember. 

Tommy closes his eyes once more, and passes out. 

He drifts in and out of consciousness, always at the edge of waking before submerging back into the bog. He dreams of fire, of smoke, and of smiles. He dreams of laughter and silence.

He dreams of an endless void, of which he is the only occupant. In this dream, he screams. He screams till his voice is gone.

In one of his moments of waking delirium, he remembers reaching out to a panicked ghost. Ghostbur had phased in and out by his side, frantic fingers fluttering over his face, his hands, murmured words stuttered.  _ Sick. Sick. Sick.  _ He had taken the teen’s shaking hands into his own cold ones, and said, “I’m going to find help, tommy.”

Tommy had grabbed on to the hem of his sweater, tears dripping down his face, cheeks flushed with fever. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.” He sobbed hysterically, desperation coloring his voice. “Wilby, you  _ promised _ .” 

Ghostbur had cupped his cheek. “I’ll come back.” He had promised, face crumpling in heartbreak, and flew out into the night.

Tommy had shivered, the dark sky slowly encompassing his vision as he fell limp into the cot. 

(It  _ burns _ . This fire consumes him, searing his bones and mangling his flesh. It tears him in two, freezing in its heat. He claws at his skin, sobbing and wailing in pain. The Nether does not answer him.)

He’s so very cold. He reaches out a shaking hand, desperate to leave, to go  _ home _ . He tumbles out onto the hard floor, face turned to the ground. A wilting flower crown greets him to the side. His vision ripples.

He curls forward, hugging his knees to his chest. He’s too dehydrated to cry. The camp is silent without Wilbur, and ice settles into his skin. He is going to die, he realizes. He’s on his last life and he’s going to die here. He lets out a choked laugh.

_ Fucking serves me right, I suppose _ , he thinks, bone deep exhaustion thrumming in his veins,  _ that in the end, I die alone.  _

And then the world flickers out.

  
  
  
  
  


(He thinks he dreams of warmth, of a fur-lined cloak wrapped around him, of an arm pulling him close. He feels the rocking of a galloping horse beneath him, dizzying. Frigid wind whips at him. He whimpers, turning his face into the warmth. He breaths in the scent of ash and iron, and beneath that, the smell of soil and pine.)

( A low voice rumbles from above him. “Go back to sleep, Tommy.”)

(He obeys.)

  
  
  
  


(For the first time in days, he sleeps peacefully.)

  
  
  
  


Tommy feels like he’s walking through water. Every miniscule movement takes much more effort than normal. His mind crawls at a snail’s pace, his bones feel as if formed from straw. Despite this, he’s not shivering. He’s  _ warm _ . There is a weight across his chest, and something soft beneath his head. He wanders the dark for a moment, considering returning to his slumber. Instead, his eyes flutter open. 

The room is thankfully dark, dimly lit by a dying fireplace. Dark oak lines the walls, and shelves and shelves of books, on farming, on war, on countless subjects his tired brain doesn't register. A loadstone sits in the corner of the room. He turns his head to the side, to where the curtains are drawn over a window. A sliver of light peeks out from a gap in between the cloth, and he looks out to see an expanse of white. Muffled voices sound from below. 

He draws the blankets to himself, pushing himself up and leaning heavily on the bed frame. His head hurts from the change in orientation, but he pays it no mind. He looks down at his hands, and finds a velvet cloth he must have been clutching on to in his sleep. It’s soft, and thick, white fur lining its edge. He stares at it, familiarity tugging at his edges. 

_ Technoblade _ , his mind supplies. 

( _ Brother _ , his heart whispers.)

His chest stutters. His breaths grow shallow, and he kicks at the blankets, frantically pushing it off. He knocks the cloak off in his panic, pausing a moment to watch it fly off the bed and onto the cobble floor. He swings his legs around, and stands on his two feet. The stone chills him. He sways for a moment, suddenly lightheaded at the sudden movement, and his hand reaches out to the bedpost to steady himself. He takes a step, and then another-

-and promptly falls to the floor. 

  
  


The voices go quiet.

He hefts himself up on an elbow, cursing his legs for their treason. A series of thuds hit the stairs outside the room and he feels a spike of terror run through him. He scrambles onto his knees, willing his useless legs to prop him up, but it shakes and bends under his weight, and he crumples to the floor a second time. 

Technoblade rounds the corner, imposing figure filling up the doorway. If not for the drumming of his heart, Tommy would snort at how  _ domestic  _ Techno looks right now, donned in a woolen sweater, white collar peeking out from under it, reading glasses resting on his nose. Instead, he glares at the pig hybrid with all the intensity his tired body could manage. Which isn't very much. 

Techno rubs hand across his eyes, sighing deeply. “Why’re you out of bed, child?” He mutters, walking over to where Tommy’s kneeling on the floor. He draws back, defensive. 

“Wait-!” The words are plucked from his throat, and he chokes on them, coughs rushing out and causing his thin frame to shake and his eyes to water. He coughs into his elbow, fist clenched on the floor. Somewhere in his misery, he registers a hand awkwardly patting his back.

“Deep breaths, Tommy.” Techno murmurs, “Breathe.”

Tommy shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. He swings his fists, knocking against Techno’s chest. It does nothing of course, his strength mostly sapped by now, but Techno steps back obligingly, faint concern written on his normally passive face. Tommy swallows, allowing himself a moment to breathe before pushing against the wall, furthering the distance between him and his brother. 

“Don’t come any nearer.” He says, voice thin, and then, maybe because his filter is even looser than usual, or his mind fuzzier than normal, “I don’t want to get hurt again.” 

Technoblade’s face falls, and he visibly stumbles back, eyes marginally wider. “Tommy-”

“No!” Tommy shouts, and a few tears slip out, “You’re a traitor, and-and you killed Tubbo-and you set those Withers on us!” He wraps his arms around himself, and closes his eyes against the feeling of burning, of the wither’s fire. He opens them again.

Technoblade leans heavily against one of the crafting tables, expression stricken. “I did.” He whispers, and they stare eye-to-eye, “I did, and a million apologies won’t do a thing. I meant what I said about history, and about L’manburg, but I am  _ so sorry _ you and your friend were caught in the crossfire.”

“Tommy, I never meant to hurt you.” Techno says, “But I did, and I let Wilbur down, and it haunts me. That one of my brothers is dead, and the other I found lying in his own sick.” He lifts a quivering hand, running a hand through his own pink hair. “You don’t have to forgive me, and you never have to see me again once you’re better, but I lost one brother already, I can’t lose another.  _ Please _ , Toms, let me help you.” 

Tommy sits from across the room, hands clenched into fists. “I fucking hate you, you know that?” He mutters, and Techno’s face crumples into resigned grief.

“I know-”

“ _ Let me finish _ .” Tommy yells, and he looks up at his brother, tears and snot falling down, “I hate you so so much, you pigman, you destroyed my home and you left me alone with Wilbur and you were never there when I lost the duel or when we were exiled from Manburg and you let Wilbur let me  _ go to war _ .” He sobs, movements clumsy as he frantically wipes away the tears, “I missed you.”

“I  _ miss  _ you.” He cries into his hands, “And I hate that after everything, I still think of you as a brother, and I still recognize the way you smell after a long day in the field, or remember the way you taught me how to fight, or the way you saved me from a skeleton when I was six. And despite  _ everything  _ you’ve done, I want to forgive you, and I want to hug you like we’re kids again hiding from the thunder, with Wil reading stories under the blankets but Wil’s fucking dead, and you’re-you don’t even care if  _ I’m alive or not! _ ”

He looks up through watery eyes and sees red-rimmed ones matching his own. Techno stands with his hands shaking at his side, and face full of emotions Tommy can’t understand. “Can-Can I-” He starts out roughly, swallows, and tries again, “Can I touch you?”

Tommy sniffles, nodding, and Techno almost  _ runs  _ to him, and takes him in his arms, and holds tight. He feels water dampen his hair, and Techno’s shoulders shake quietly. “I care.” Techno says hoarsely, “Of course I care. You’re my baby brother, Tommy. My stupid brother. I care about you so much it scares the living shit out of me. If anything happened to you I-” He shakes his head, burying his nose deep into his little brother’s hair, “If you had asked me to, I would set the world aflame for you.”

And Tommy breaks. He buries his head into Techno’s chest and wails, and holds on to his brother like a lifeline. He feels Techno hold on just as tight. “You don’t have to set shit on fire, big man.” He says, voice wobbly, “Just don’t ever leave me again.”

Techno cups his face, tilting it so that Tommy is forced to look him in the eyes. “Never.” Techno swears, “I’ll never leave you again.” and he runs a hand through the boy’s hair as Tommy weeps into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Techno says, repeatedly, murmured into his brother’s crying form, and Tommy hugs him harder in return, and in that small moment, they can almost forget the storm that brews in the horizon, the blood that stains both their hands, the empty space where Wilbur once sat, gentle fingers running through both their hair, humming gentle songs of comfort, the three of them three pieces of a broken set. For a moment, they’re kids again, huddled under the blanket as thunder sounds above, and Tommy can close his eyes knowing someone will be there when he wakes up. 

“Let’s get you back to bed?” Techno asks, and Tommy nods, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He hooks an arm under the younger boy’s legs, and another under his back, and carries him to the bed. Tommy leans on his brother’s shoulder, too tired to even move. Techno lays him gently on to the mattress, drawing the blankets over him. He hesitates for a second, and when Tommy’s hand reaches out to tug his sleeve, the resolve he never had leaves him and he joins Tommy, shifting around so that Tommy’s head lays on his chest and his arm curls protectively around the younger. 

“How did you know to find me?” Tommy asks, voice slurring with sleep. 

“Wil came over lookin’ all lost and crap.” Techno says, “Didn’t know why he needed me, just knew that he had to come get me. I put two and two together. He was here, you weren’t, he forgot what happened.” 

(Techno doesn’t tell him about how he had rode to the campsite, heart in his throat, assuming the worst. He didn’t speak about how he had dropped to his knees in relief when he felt a pulse.)

“Where’s he now?”

“Waiting outside the room, d’you want him to come in?”

“Mhm.”

Ghostbur drifts into the room, almost hesitant. He brightens up when he sees Tommy. “Tommy you’re awake!” He turns to Techno, “Dad’s on his way. Got held up by a scuffle between Fundy and Dream.”

Techno nods, and beckons the ghost closer. Ghostbur drifts to the empty side of the bed, settling down to sit by the window sill. Tommy sighs, settling into Techno’s side. Techno glances at Ghostbur, and Ghostbur smiles in return. The anarchist closes his eyes, and the ghost begins to sing. 

  
  
  


_ (I'll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready, _

_And I'll_ _put down my roots when I'm dead…)_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> What do you think :0 dfdfhg I think this is the longest thing I've ever written before


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